


Why I Fight

by ACoward



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blood, Heavy dies, Respawn, but not really, not too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:40:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACoward/pseuds/ACoward
Summary: As the Heavy lay dying in the midst of battle, he reflects on why he fights a never-ending war, and who he fights it for.
Relationships: Heavy/Medic (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 63





	Why I Fight

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with another yearning Heavy. This is just another short one shot-y thing. 
> 
> Disclaimers: I don't own TF2 or its characters. Also I love me a good comma.

_**Why I Fight** _

Heavy was not present for his father's death. He had not had time to prepare nor to mourn. He had to work to stay alive, to keep the rest of his family alive. For his mother and sisters, he would do anything. He would live deep in the mountains to protect them from evil men, he would kill and kill again to keep them safe. He would die himself to keep them safe. 

Which, he thought offhandedly, he was doing at the moment. Dying. The word didn't seem as permanent as it used to. Working here, at Team Fortress Industries he died nearly every day, and when he didn't die he mowed down countless men, who never seemed to die either. 

Yes, the Heavy was dying. That thought shockingly didn't scare him like it would a year ago. He didn't remember too much about the events leading up to him lying on the muddy ground. Blood and rain and pain all blinding him in the moment. A rocket, maybe? Yes. It had been a rocket, aimed squarely at his chest by the enemy BLU Soldier. That made sense of the pain he was in, and how he couldn't hear very well anymore. He was almost glad about the temporary deafness. He never minded the killing and the dying, but the explosions and screams still got to him. He would wake some nights to the sound of screams. Sometimes it was the men he killed, sometimes it was his family's. Sometimes it was the sound of his doctor. 

His doctor. Oh his doctor. He fought and killed every day to protect the ones he loved, and the Medic was one of them. 

That brilliant, terrible man, who could heal and kill in equal parts, had taken the Heavy's heart. Both metaphorically and literally. The feeling of love had crept up on Heavy like a winter chill, and suddenly one day he realized he was willing to do anything the Medic asked of him. 

The man was beautiful. He was strong and smart and brave, and the Heavy had it bad for him. However, Heavy was also stubborn, and valued the Medic's friendship far too much to ever say anything to the other man. He was alright with swallowing his love, keeping it locked up in the heart the Medic had held in his own hands. He would be okay. He was happy enough to be the man's friend, be his support, be his shield. 

He wondered, briefly, where the doctor was. Was he healing him when the rocket made contact with his torso? Was he dead? The Heavy certainly hoped not. He hated it when the Medic died. To see those clever eyes vacantly staring into the sky above them. To see his blood on his white coat, usually so clean and well taken care of. He hated seeing the man in pain even more than he hated seeing him dead. 

Once, he had held the doctor as he died, slow and painful. The medigun, along with the man who carried it, broken beyond repair. Those memories haunted him more than the screams. He could do nothing for the man cradled against his chest, except shield him from further damage. The Heavy hated feeling useless. 

Heavy wasn't sure how much time had passed between the rocket hitting him and now, and when he felt movement next to him he cracked his eyes open a little bit. The Medic was there, very much alive, and crouched down next to him. He was pressing his long white coat into the Heavy's abdomen to try to stifle the bleeding. He was saying something, his thick eyebrows knit together. Heavy wondered if the man knew he couldn't be heard. The medigun wasn't with the doctor. It was probably broken in the fight. It was no wonder, to Heavy. The thing was practically held together with ductape. The doctor was certainly not an engineer. He knew the Medic was working on different, stronger versions of the gun, so he would have to resort to field medicine less often. 

He took in the sight of the Medic, or, what he could with his darkening vision. Like Heavy, the man was covered in mud and blood. Heavy wasn't sure how much of the blood covering the doctor was his. Raindrops streaked down his round glasses. It always seemed to rain at Sawmill, and Misha knew it irritated the doctor to no end to always keep wiping off his glasses. There was a deep cut right above the Medic's eyebrow. The doctor's hair was soaking wet from rain, his prominent curl plastered against his forehead. Heavy desperately wanted to push the mans hair back out of the way, wipe the blood from his brow, and maybe capture the doctor's lips in his own. 

However, Heavy's arms no longer worked, and even if they did, he understood now probably wouldn't be the best time for confessions. He was just happy being the doctor's friend, he reminded himself. Although, with the frantic way the Medic was looking at him, his nimble hands holding the white coat to the Heavy's chest, it was easy to pretend that they were something else. Something wonderful. 

He wondered why the Medic stayed there by his side as long as he did. He had to have been aware that the Heavy's condition was a lost cause without the help of the medigun. Why even try to stop the bleeding? Despite this, the Medic stayed by his side, and the Heavy was more than thankful. The doctor said something, leaning closer to the Heavy so the weapons specialist could hear, but his words fell on deaf ears. All Misha heard was a dull ringing. It was as if someone had shoved cotton into his ears. 

It was a shame, he thought, that he couldn't hear his doctor's beautiful voice in those final, bloody moments. The last thing he saw before waking up in respawn was the Medic's worried blue eyes behind rain streaked glasses. Those eyes, and the man they belonged to, was why he fought. 


End file.
